A Sky Full of Tears
by wordwolf
Summary: Can Christian Troy hold onto his sanity as the border between life and death grows as blurred as that between virtue and damnation? Sequel to Martyr's Moon.
1. Default Chapter

A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

DISCLAIMERS: Characters from Nip/Tuck are the property of Ryan Murphy. Characters from CSI: Miami are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

Lyrics of "The Killing Moon" and "Crystal Days" written by Ian McCulloch. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

"Compline," "The horns of the morning,"and"The moon is full tonight" written by Philip Larkin. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

This story may be reproduced and distributed without charge if proper author credit is given and disclaimers are retained. Feedback is welcome.

THIS FANFICTION MAY CONTAIN SCENES OF VIOLENCE, STRONG LANGUAGE, ADULT SITUATIONS AND NUDITY AND THEREFORE MAY BE UNSUITABLE FOR CHILDREN UNDER 17. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

by wordwolf

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

PART I.

Dr. Sean McNamara hated not knowing what to do. Already it had been three weeks since the memorial service, nearly a month since the terrible night itself, and his friend and partner remained sunk in his stony near-silence. True, far from being affected negatively, his work had been exceptional in that time, their patients benefiting from a new, icy, nearly inhuman focus on the part of Dr. Christian Troy. But almost everything else seemed to have been forgotten – or worse yet, banished – from Troy's behavior. His whirlwind social life had yet to resume at all; his boat and Ferrari languished untouched; he'd even largely ceased visiting with the McNamara family, which its head had so hoped would help support and shelter his bereaved friend. Once in a fit of frustration McNamara had suggested that the two of them go out and get as drunk as two rats trapped in a beer barrel, and even then Troy had turned him down.

But one thing McNamara was determined not to do was say the wrong thing. He remembered too well the sparks that had flown at his clumsy but well-meaning attempt to console Troy for his previous tragedy: the loss of the baby boy he had come to love so much. Their friendship had hit a sharp rock over little Wilbur, and McNamara would not let that happen again. So he held his peace, waiting for Troy to bring up the subject.

Except that Troy did not bring up the subject. He was spending much of his time between procedures alone in his office, endlessly rereading the collected poems of Philip Larkin. McNamara understood that the book was Troy's first and last link to the woman he had lost, but that didn't leave him any less worried to see a man whose taste for reading had lately been satisfied with the daily paper and some professional journals now deeply absorbed in some of the last century's most searingly honest poetry.

But still McNamara said nothing, letting Troy heal in his own way. In the meantime he extended the courtesy of letting his friend choose the music for the operating room. For weeks now they'd been hearing the brief repertoire of Nick Drake over and over again. McNamara trusted that the deceptively simple, achingly sad songs were helping Troy through his loss, but he was concerned nonetheless. No one familiar with Drake's career was unaware of the folksinger's early, tragic death by his own hand.

For this operation, Troy had selected _Bryter Layter_ again. It was his favorite. Until recently it had been McNamara's favorite too, but he wasn't sure how many more times he could handle it without sinking into a depression of his own. He looked down at the pretty young lady, an aspiring singer, whose breasts they were enhancing, and reflected that Troy hadn't flirted with a patient in all this time, but had maintained a cool professionalism with this girl and all the others since the incident. Perhaps that was something to be grateful for.

McNamara found himself remembering the memorial service for Karen Avalon, three weeks and an eternity ago. It had been gratifying to see the size of the crowd that turned out to her local Methodist church: co-workers and neighbors, fellow fencers, what must have been most of the regular congregation, were all there for her; the pastor's eulogy, far from the usual boilerplate, was the testimony of one who had actually known her. In life she might have been deprived of family, but not of love. That at least was a consolation.

And it wasn't just loss of love that had left Troy so deeply broken; something else was involved. McNamara found that out before the service, when he suggested to his friend that Troy ask to say a few words. Troy had flashed him a frightening gaze and said softly and dangerously, "What would you have me say, Sean? That the woman we've all gathered to mourn would still be with us if I hadn't been afraid, and slow, and weak?" McNamara had been too shaken to argue or console. Later at the service, when he'd looked across the church and seen Lt. Horatio Caine, of the Miami-Dade Police crime scene unit, he had realized that the sense of guilt must extend to others who had failed to save her. McNamara only hoped that they would all be able to put it behind them before too much longer. There had been too many losses in the last two years.

This last procedure of their long workday had been completed, the patient transferred to the recovery wing, and the surgeons were soon ready to return home. On the street outside, McNamara paused to take in the sight of a full, golden tropical moonrise, on the kind of clear night only witnessed in the lull following the passage of storms. The experts all said it was going to be a terrible hurricane season, one for the record books. Maybe another storm was rising far out in the Caribbean even now; time to cling to this lovely night as long as possible. "Isn't it beautiful, Christian?" McNamara said as his partner came up behind him.

Troy was silent for a long moment, gazing into the sky. Just as the other was beginning to feel uncomfortable, he suddenly spoke, in a distant voice:

"The moon is full tonight

And hurts the eyes,

It is so definite and bright.

What if it has drawn up

All quietness and certitude of worth

Wherewith to fill its cup,

Or mint a second moon, a paradise? –

For they are gone from earth."

The silence returned as Troy walked away.

XX

Christian Troy was slouched in his living room, wondering whether to try to sleep or pour himself another drink first, when the doorbell sounded. His first instinct was to ignore it. After all, he didn't feel as if he was even at home; maybe the person who was out there would eventually agree.

He made a game attempt to ignore the shrilling doorbell, but whoever stood on the other side was not taking no for an answer. After one particularly grating twelve-second ring, he finally sighed and went to answer it. He didn't bother with the peephole, which was why he stood astonished when he saw the visitor. "Kimber? What are you doing here?"

"So I was right," Kimberly Henry sneered at him, tossing her bleached curls.

"About what?" Troy asked in a stunned tone.

She flounced past him and planted herself on his couch. "About you needing someone to talk some sense into you." She banged her purse onto the coffee table decisively. "Well? Come and sit down. It's about time we talked."

He shook his head wearily. "Kimber, I don't want to talk. I don't even want to talk to Sean. I CERTAINLY don't want to talk to you."

She nodded. "All the more reason why you should. Christian, you've got to get over this obsession with that tattooed girl – what was her name?"

It felt like a bolt of pure grief hitting his heart. He dropped himself heavily into the square armchair. "Karen. Her name was Karen Avalon."

"There! That's exactly what I mean!" Kimber's voice had a distinct tone of "Gotcha!" to it. "I mean, why do you even remember? You forget most of the other names, don't you?"

He glared hard at her in preference to blinking back tears. "Kimber, you're on thin ice. What do you think she and I had, some tawdry one-night stand?"

"Well, you DID only fuck her once."

Irritation became indignation. "You never disappoint, do you, Kimber? Always the same shallow jealous bitch I was lucky to get away from."

Kimber almost hissed. "Because what you really wanted was a frigid little bookworm who played with toy swords because she wanted a dick, and knew a lot of poems that don't rhyme. Yeah, right!"

Troy's eyes darkened and hardened, and his voice went low. "I'll put this as politely as I can. Karen was an educated young lady who loved me. You, on the other hand, are a vulgar, coke-addled slut who demands that I love you. Now do you understand?"

Her voice took on a sly undertone. "How can you be so sure she loved you?"

He stared at her in utter incredulity. "Kimber, she laid her head on a block for a madman to chop off – so that I wouldn't suffer. I think that indicates more than a casual interest."

"Well, how do you know I wouldn't do the exact same thing in her place?"

Troy chuckled. "Oh, maybe because you have all the reckless courage of the spoiled kept woman you desperately aspire to be?"

Kimber's lips pursed into a tight little knot. "Maybe she was just suicidal. How well did you know her, anyway?"

His vision blurred a little, and it was suddenly hard to swallow. "Well enough."

"But did she know YOU well enough?"

He sat up straighter. "Just what the hell are you insinuating, Kimber?"

"Looks like I hit a nerve!" She smirked coldly. "Think about it, Christian. Was it really you that Karen loved, or some fantasy in her own head? Did she really know who you are? Sure, she knew Christian Troy the rich, cool, handsome doctor. What girl wouldn't want him? But what would she have thought of Christian Troy the tomcat who wipes his dick in a different woman every night – with or without a little coke to start with? Tight-assed little Miss Bookworm would have run screaming from HIM, back to her poems and her toy swords! But she never found out about him, did she?" Kimber's hard blue eyes narrowed. "If she had, it could've saved her dull, respectable little life."

The blood roared in Troy's ears; he felt his hands balling up into fists. Through clenched teeth biting back the rage and hate, he growled quietly, "Get out. Get out now, Kimber, before I do something we'll both regret."

She rose, swinging her purse jauntily, the smirk still in place. "Oh, I'm going, Christian. But it's not because I'm scared of you, or anything. It's just that I feel it'd be good for you to be alone for a while. Both editions of you." Her laughter tinkled like breaking crystal as she minced toward the door; then she paused for a moment. "Bye, Christian. If you get lonely later, maybe you can go to the library and pick up another good little girl." He barely kept from launching himself at the door as she slammed it behind her.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. A Sky Full of Tears chapter 2

A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

Disclaimers in part I.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

by wordwolf

PART II.

In the morning, their first surgery was a routine face-lift – especially routine, considering that it was this particular patient's third. Before they began, Liz raised a rubber-coated hand and announced, "With all due respect, gentlemen, if I have to listen to Nick Drake sob his way through _Pink Moon_ one more time, they are going to find me this afternoon hanging from a light fixture by my shoelaces. Something else, please?"

McNamara cast an inquiring gaze at his partner and received a nod. "It's okay. Just grab anything."

A wave of relief circulated through the operating room, and Liz picked a CD at random. "How about this _Ocean Rain_?"

"Should be fine." McNamara hoped he didn't sound as relieved as he felt. The music came up as the blade came down...

"Under blue moon I saw you

So soon you'll take me

Up in your arms, too late to beg you

Or cancel it though I know it must be

The killing time

Unwillingly mine

Fate

Up against your will

Through the thick and thin

He will wait until

You give yourself to him..."

Suddenly McNamara heard a choking sound – soft, as if being suppressed, but not effectively enough. The scalpel was shaking in his partner's hand. "Liz, turn it off, please! We'll finish this one without music, okay?" Silence descended, along with relief. "Christian, do you want to sit this one out?"

"No... no, I'll be fine, Sean. It'd be best to keep going." So they did, and the patient got exactly what she had paid for: the world-class surgical artistry of McNamara/Troy. McNamara and Troy themselves got another reminder of how long healing can take.

XX

Troy was hidden in his office, deep into "The Whitsun Weddings" for time uncountable, when the telephone rang. He contemplated leaving it for the receptionist before sighing and picking up. "Hello?"

"Christian?"

"KIMBER?!" Heat rose in his voice. "Jesus Christ, how do you have the balls to – "

"Please, Christian, I'm calling to say I'm sorry!" The words were rushed, desperate. "I really am! I was really out of line last night, I know, and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings; I was just jealous, and angry, and frustrated that I couldn't say anything to make it better. Please, just give me a chance to make it up to you."

He had been going to slam the receiver down, but something about her voice held him, and he relented. "What do you want, Kimber?"

"Will you meet me this evening? At that place where we met the first time? Please. I want to apologize in person. Just let me explain what I meant to say, before it all fell apart last night."

At the other end of the line, she couldn't see him shrug. "All right, Kimber, but don't expect me to be very patient."

"You won't have to be. I promise!"

_Yeah, I'll just bet you do,_ he thought sourly, but gave no indication to her.

So at six-thirty Troy sat at the beachside bar with his first Scotch and stared through the vast window at nothing; at six thirty-two she joined him. He barely acknowledged her presence, and after a very awkward moment, Kimber realized she'd have to initiate the encounter. "Christian, you know I already said I'm sorry and that I didn't mean to hurt your feelings last night."

"Got it," he grunted, putting away half of his drink at one pull.

"And I didn't mean to insult Karen. I know she meant a lot to you, even if you only knew her for a little while."

Troy sighed and took another gulp. "What's your point, Kimber?"

She was trying to keep her tone soft. "Well, if you're going to put it that way... I know how hurt you are, and how much you cared about her, but – but you two weren't really right for each other. I think deep down you realize that too."

His eyes were narrow and hot. "If you're going to start with some bullshit about how it was all for the best – "

"I didn't say that!" Her voice was halfway between anguished and angry. "Just hear me out before you bite my ass off, okay? Let's be realistic about this. Look, I never met her myself and I'm sorry I didn't get the chance, but I heard she was pretty, and classy, and really smart. Plus you and she were in the same kind of situation growing up. I understand how all that could have attracted you."

"Kimber, a stone could understand why I was attracted to her."

"Right. But let's say you did stay together – married, even. Could you have stayed attracted to her?"

He groaned. "More of the same insinuations? Kimber, don't you know when to quit?"

"Just think about it!" The annoyance was creeping up. "This has nothing to do with her getting old or fat or anything; she was way younger than you, after all. But I know you pretty well, Christian, and soon enough you would have gotten bored. And when you get bored... well, iffy things can happen."

Troy drained his glass and signaled for another without taking his eyes off her face. His gaze was cool, very cool indeed. "Bored," he said tonelessly.

"Yeah, bored. Think about it. You, with a real old-fashioned girl. Yeah, so she worked out with swords, and that's really cool, and you could have gotten into that. But she worked at a bookstore, and liked poetry. Probably she was into museums, and movies with subtitles, and all that arty stuff that doesn't interest you at all. After a while, how would you have had any fun together? You'd have started taking her to YOUR favorite places, introducing her to YOUR kind of entertainment. And if she really loved you, she'd have gone along, trying to please you, meeting you halfway... maybe trying some blow for the first time, maybe a little kinky role-play, maybe her first threeway... Then you'd recommend the surgeries to make her better, fix her for you, and she wouldn't be able to refuse you. Sooner or later you'd look at her, and your sweet innocent Karen wouldn't be there anymore; you'd see just another disposable cut-up slut! It's just human nature, Christian; you wouldn't plan it that way, you wouldn't mean it... but give it time, and you would have ruined everything about her that you loved in the first place."

He stared, silent; Kimber met his eyes, her own glittering defiantly, and went silent herself. They were like that for a long moment, the chatter and clink of the bar around them unnoticed, until Kimber lowered her gaze. She closed her eyes briefly, then raised them and met his again. "I'm sorry, Christian." Smoothly she rose and left, and he was alone.

XX

After he got home and deep into the night, Troy continued drinking slowly but steadily, and gave a lot of thought to what his former lover had said. Surely it didn't have a basis in reality... but was _that_ how she saw him? Corrupt, toxic, defiling everything – and everyone – he touched? Could he even contemplate bringing Karen Avalon into his world, let alone actually do it if given the chance? One thin thread of comfort he had been able to seize and hold was the thought that he had at least given her a few days of love, of hope and heady excitement before the ordeal of her final night. Was it possible that he would have been a curse upon her in the long run; that not only had he failed to save her from her murderer, but in some sick way, James Pierce had saved her from _him_?

It grew darker minute by minute, but Troy didn't bother to turn on the lights. Staring out the window, he watched the weather line move in from the southeast in advance of the season's next major storm, stretching black cloud cover over the sea and the city. Just a matter of time before the wind and the rain lashed them again, mirroring Troy's emotional state with an irony almost beautiful. Philip Larkin would have appreciated it, he mused bitterly.

That was when the telephone shrilled him out of his reverie. Acting on habit ingrained into instinct, he picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hi, Christian. Remember me?"

_That voice!_ It wasn't possible; not that smooth, mocking tenor, last heard a month ago under the dark of the moon... Troy was too astonished to form words and only listened, stunned. "Of course you do. Wish you didn't, right? But I'm sure you'd rather talk to HER, wouldn't you?"

A crackle of laughter faded, to be replaced by a very different voice, one that sobbed, "Christian? Dear God, Christian, help me!"

_It was not possible, simply not possible..._ "KAREN?!" Was he losing his mind?

"Oh, Christian, it's really you... "

But was it really _her_? How could it be? Was there any way to tell? Something they shared, something special... "Karen, if it is you, tell me: Who was the last poet?"

"What?" The voice broke on another sob. "Why ask me that?"

"I'm sorry, so sorry, but please, I have to hear you say it!"

A moment's pause for sniffling, more tears. "Philip Larkin. Please, Christian, it is me, I'm alive... and I love you."

A blade to the gut couldn't have hurt more. "My God, Karen, how? I was there, I held you, I felt as you... " He couldn't finish.

"I don't know, Christian, I don't understand at all... I remember the pain, and the cold, and everything going dark... I woke up and I was here."

"But where is 'here'?"

"I don't know!" The voice rose to a thin wail. "There are no windows, there's nothing but the white tile and the bars, and I'm alone – until HE comes!"

"You mean that bastard Pierce? Jesus Christ, what has he done? Is he going to kill you?"

A pause. "I wish he would." There was a sudden click, then nothing but the groan of the dial tone.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. A Sky Full of Tears chapter 3

A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

Disclaimers in part I.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

by wordwolf

PART III.

Christian Troy arose too early from a restless night. He stood for a long time watching the dawn rise over the sea. Between the water and the pillowy overcast of the sky, the morning light threw a gray-roseate sheen from horizon to horizon. The storm that was now thrashing the Windward Islands would be in south Florida within forty-eight hours. At least he was lucky in two ways: Hurricane Kristin had been downgraded to a tropical storm, and the boys at the National Weather Service had had the good taste not to name it Hurricane Karen. He might have had to get out of town if they had...

The storm was of course responsible for this subtle, lovely color-palette of a daybreak. So many people never noticed that there was more than one kind of beautiful day. This one, like all beautiful things now, hurt him deeply. The fear and confusion – and the strange, unnatural hope that had been growing all night – sharpened it. He turned from the window, speaking softly to himself:

"The horns of the morning

Are blowing, are shining,

The meadows are bright

With the coldest dew;

The dawn reassembles,

Like the clash of gold cymbals

The sky spreads its vans out

   The sun hangs in view.

Here, where no love is,

All that was hopeless

And kept me from sleeping

Is frail and unsure;

For never so brilliant,

Neither so silent

Nor so unearthly, has

   Earth grown before."

He turned from the window and went to wash and dress. He had surgeries to prepare for and a next move to plan.

XX

There was silence in the break room of McNamara/Troy. The latter partner downed his morning wheatgrass shot as if it were a fortifying shot of a different, stronger kind, and chose his words carefully. "Sean, do you think it's possible that last month – that night – Pierce could have escaped?"

McNamara's head whipped around from the coffee machine. "What did you say?"

"Do you think James Pierce could have gotten away? That maybe he's still alive?"

The other didn't know whether to laugh or worry. "After two bullets in the chest and going face-down into deep swamp water? No, I don't think so!"

"But think about it!" Troy crossed the room toward his friend, voice rising with excitement. "We were there, and never saw them recover the body!"

"Oh, get real. They must have fished it out after we left. Remember how I took you home right after you gave your statement?"

"Yes." Troy dropped his eyes. "You know, I never thanked you for that."

"You didn't have to," McNamara replied kindly. "But what brought this on?"

_Should I tell him?_ Troy realized that he'd have to eventually, for the conversation to make any sense. "Sean, I – I think he called me last night."

"WHAT?!" A hard blue stare pinned Troy. "Christian, how much did you have to drink last night?"

"A bit." Heat reddened Troy's face. "But not enough that I'd ever mistake his voice!" The excitement returned. "Think about what he said – what I told you and the cops – that power is connected to liquid, or something. He was bleeding, and went down into water; maybe he was able to use some kind of power to swim away and recover!"

McNamara snorted. "Maybe he woke up in the morgue, opened his own drawer from the inside, and walked away. And now he's in L.A. making a nice living as a technical advisor for cheap zombie movies."

But Troy's face darkened, and the senior partner instantly regretted his tone. "Sean, have a bit of humility. You didn't experience the man's power; _I_ did. In spades. I know you don't believe in that sort of thing, and I don't either – at least I didn't – but Pierce could, and did, do stuff that just wasn't natural. He hauled me naked past a whole dragnet of cops, laughing every step of the way, and none of them saw or heard a goddamned thing! Maybe there's some natural explanation, but I sure as hell don't know what it is, and I tell you that Pierce was just not entirely human!"

The answering voice was softer now. "What do you think he was?"

"_Is._ I'm sure he's still alive. And I don't know about this – " here Troy swallowed hard, "but he might have the power to... to raise the dead."

Silence. McNamara hastily put down his coffee mug before he could drop it. "Christian, what the hell are you talking about?"

Another gulp. "She... Karen... was on the phone too. He's brought her back, and is holding her captive."

That was when McNamara exploded. "Damn it, Christian! Enough is enough! You're going to have to get some therapy, or at least bereavement counseling, or something! I'm sorry too, but Karen Avalon is gone – Christian, she died under our hands! For Christ's sake, we were at her funeral!"

"Her _memorial service_, Sean. Remember? _There was no coffin there._"

"_For the love of God!_" McNamara practically leaped across the room, seized his friend's shoulders, and glared hard into his eyes. "You've GOT to get some help, Christian! I thought you'd be able to get through this okay, but not if someone is screwing with your head like this! What kind of bastard would do this to you?" Possibilities were occurring to him, very sinister possibilities... "Can you get private phone access in prison?"

Troy didn't shake him off. "What are you getting at?"

"Maybe this is Escobar trying to take some twisted revenge. Or even Merrill Bobolit. God knows we've picked up our share of enemies."

Troy's turn to snort. "Escobar wouldn't know what happened, and anyway, this isn't his style. Too subtle. And Bobolit couldn't think up a plan like this in a million years. But Sean, couldn't it be possible that Karen's death was just a horrible illusion?"

Now McNamara shook his head and let go of his partner. "Honestly, Christian, if I could get away with it, I'd lock myself away for a month with a case of cheap Scotch, a pound of weed, and the complete works of Philip K. Dick and convince myself that the whole last couple of years were just a horrible illusion. But what's done is done." He sighed. "No one wanted more than me to see you find Miss Right and some happiness. But it's over – and now some son of a bitch is using it to drive you mad. I think the best thing is for you to find a good therapist to help you through your grief – AFTER you go to the police." McNamara liked that idea instantly. "In fact, if you don't go to the cops, I will!"

Troy liked the idea too, but not in the same way. "You know, Sean, I believe I will go to the cops. I'll make an appointment today, in fact."

"Good! Meanwhile," he checked his watch, "I'll see you in surgery in twenty minutes?"

"I'll be there." As McNamara stepped from the room, Troy lingered, taking out his cellphone and making the call.

"Miami Police Department," clacked the voice on the phone.

"Yes. I need to speak to Lieutenant Horatio Caine..."

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. A Sky Full of Tears chapter 4

A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

Disclaimers in part I.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

by wordwolf 

PART IV.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Lieutenant," said Christian Troy as he was escorted to Horatio Caine's office at the Miami police crime laboratory.

"I'm sure your schedule was harder to change than mine, Doctor." But the calm, kind face of the criminalist was unreadable. "How can I help you?"

"I've just a couple of questions. The type one doesn't like to have answered over the phone." Troy flashed a smile that did little to relax the slightly brittle atmosphere. "About last month, of course."

"Of course." Neither pair of blue eyes softened. "Have a seat, Dr. Troy."

"I'd prefer to stand." Another smile that didn't reach past his lips. "This shouldn't take long." The red head nodded; Caine waited for the other to continue. "Really, Lieutenant, I could tap dance around like this all day, but I won't insult your intelligence any longer. Getting right to the point: When did you recover the body of James Pierce?"

Caine stiffened, and didn't hide it in time. "We didn't, Doctor."

"You didn't." Troy did hide the sudden surge in his heart rate.

"No. The recovery team showed up within an hour, but found nothing but some blood in the water. No other remains. Our theories are that either a gator pulled the body from the area to eat later, or possibly that a current washed it down the 'Glades and out to sea."

"A current. In a swamp." Troy didn't keep his eyes from narrowing. "So you don't see much of a chance that Pierce might have survived the shooting."

"Not much. In the absence of a body, though, one must remain open to all possibilities."

"All possibilities," Troy echoed. There was a brief, slightly tense pause. "Which leads me to my other question, Lt. Caine: I'd really like to know, seeing as how she had no family, to whom Karen Avalon's body was released."

An inquisitive light flashed in the criminalist's eyes. "That's a very interesting question, Dr. Troy, and if you give me a minute, I'll have an answer for you." Caine went to his desk computer and began hitting keys. But the bright inquisitive light turned quizzical, then bewildered. "Dr. Troy... it seems we have no record of ever releasing her body."

"Which means?" Troy leaned forward across the desk.

"Which means that after all this time, it must still be in the morgue. Come with me." Caine led the way; soon enough the two men had fetched up in the cold metal-plated cave of the medical examiner.

Dr. Alexx Woods was surprised to see them. "Horatio? And this is...?"

Troy smiled perfunctorily and spoke before Caine could. "Dr. Christian Troy. I had some... involvement in the, uh, scorpion murders."

Woods lowered her lashes. "Yes, I remember."

Now Caine said, "Dr. Troy, this is Dr. Alexx Woods, our chief medical examiner. Alexx, Dr. Troy is curious about the disposal of the remains of the last of the scorpion victims, Karen Avalon." He paused. "And I am too. We have no record of their release."

"Really?" There was consternation on the doctor's fine-boned brown face. "Let me see." Woods went to her own computer; within seconds she had the same results as Caine. "This doesn't make any sense... Maybe it's on the hard copy and wasn't entered correctly." The coroner crossed to a large filing cabinet, pulled a drawer and quickly pawed through papers and folders, watched intently by her commander and impatiently by the civilian. Within a few minutes she looked up, consternation only deepened. "It's not here!"

"Then it IS here, so to speak." Caine's tone was grim. "Alexx, which one?"

Woods quickly returned to her screen, then led the way to the cold-storage lockers. "Here. I have no idea how this could have happened..." She grasped the handle, swung the door wide. "WHAT?"

The three stared into a cold, metallic box holding only a limp, unzipped body bag – empty. "Stolen!" declared Caine. "But who, and how – "

He and Woods suddenly turned at the sound of a clatter of footsteps. Troy had staggered back against the autopsy table, all the color drained from his face. Barely pulling himself together, he managed to gasp, "Thank you, Lieutenant, Doctor. I – I should go now." Quickly he whirled to hurry from the lab, from the police station, away from the impossible implications of what he had seen.

But they weren't about to let him go so easily. "Dr. Troy!" Caine's hand landed on his shoulder and forced a halt. "I'm sorry, but I think it's time for you to answer some questions."

Troy released a sigh that almost became a sob, and turned slowly around to face the forensic specialists. Woods' gaze was almost suspicious; Caine's eyes now had softened as they always did for victims' families and traumatized witnesses. "Please, Doctor. Let's talk in my office." Without a word, Troy nodded and went with him.

"First, you do understand," Caine began as he drew out a chair for the other, "that you're not being charged with, or even suspected of, anything. I'd just like to know what made you come here today, a month later, to ask about the remains of the perpetrator and victim of a crime you witnessed."

The plastic surgeon only shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because _I_ don't believe it myself." He rested his elbows on the thin arms of the chair and dropped his face into his hands. "But with no bodies..."

Caine waited out the pause, but when nothing else was forthcoming, leaned forward and probed gently. "Please, Dr. Troy, what happened to you?"

It came out in a sobbing burst. "I spoke to them both on the phone last night!"

The criminalist's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Spoke to whom?"

Troy gulped hard. "James Pierce and – and Karen Avalon. It was their voices. He just teased for a bit, then I heard her... the son of a bitch is holding her prisoner, torturing her; she wants to die – again!"

"Dr. Troy, how can you be sure you weren't hearing a couple of skillful imitations?"

"I guess I can't," he admitted. "Except that I did ask her something from when we met – who did she call 'the last poet' – and she gave the right answer."

Brief silence as Caine considered this. "It's realistic to say that she probably shared that observation with other friends and colleagues as well."

A shrug. "Probably. But those were some damn spot-on imitations – IF they were imitations. But why would anyone else do this to me? Pierce himself is the only one with motivation!"

"What kind of motivation, Doctor?"

Troy raised his head, rearing up straighter. "Isn't it obvious? The scorpion murders were a string of ritual sacrifices he'd prepared for twenty-five years – and _I_ spoiled the last one. Whatever he hoped to gain from the whole terrible thing, I slowed him down enough to mess it up." The breath caught in his throat. "But not enough to save her."

"Do you think he would have gained anything?" Caine was sympathetic, but skeptical nonetheless.

"HE certainly seemed to think he would! But who the hell knows? The man had powers of some kind; I don't want to think about how he got them." Troy looked pleadingly into the other's eyes. "Please, can I go now?"

Caine didn't answer at once; a few slow seconds ticked by before he nodded and said gently, "Yes, you can go, Dr. Troy. But promise me: If you get another call like that, or any communication from anyone claiming to be James Pierce or Karen Avalon, you'll contact me immediately."

Troy managed a wan smile. "I figured you'd say that. Of course I will, Lieutenant. Thank you. And you'll let me know if you find out anything yourself?"

"That I will, Doctor. Around here we don't take kindly to being played for fools. I assure you that whatever ghoul took Miss Avalon's body will answer to me."

XX

The surgeon had managed to compose himself back into a reasonable facsimile of his usual aplomb by the time he arrived back at McNamara/Troy. But it was only a matter of time before he lost it entirely – unless he could get an explanation for all this. Pierce vanished, possibly alive and at large, and now Karen's body taken from under the noses of the police... Troy had known more than his share of fear in this life, but now the unknown was gaping at the edge of his world, darker and more dreadful than the storm closing in outside.

Fortunately, he showed no sign of his turmoil as he strode into their suite. He certainly didn't want to have to explain himself to Sean... and he'd cut his own throat before allowing Liz to find out about this situation. Best to keep the self-assured, cocky mask on, and take care of this himself. "Good afternoon, Linda," he said heartily to the nurse-receptionist-factotum. "Made any plans to welcome Kristin tomorrow?"

"Kristin?" She suddenly caught on, and smiled. "Actually, now that they've downgraded it to a tropical storm, I was planning to come in. Unless you decide to close for the day."

"Yes, I should talk to Sean about that. Nobody will want to drive through fifty-mile-an-hour winds. Well, then... "

"Oh, this came for you while you were out. Via messenger." Nurse Linda handed him a large manila envelope, "Dr. Christian Troy" scrawled across it in a large, free hand and no return address.

"Messenger, huh? Uniformed?"

"No, not really. He was wearing..." Her voice trailed away; a look of nervous discomfort crossed her face. "You know, I don't remember what he was wearing... or what he looked like at all. But he was here only fifteen minutes ago!" She looked up. "I'm sorry, Dr. Troy – Dr. Troy? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Linda; it's just that I – I..." He forced out words. "I've been waiting for this. Very important. Personal." Quickly he tucked the envelope under his arm and took off for his office, the blood roaring in his ears.

Arriving, he flung the thing away from him onto his desk, and stood and stared at it for a long minute. Maybe the best thing would be to set it alight and drop it into the metal wastebasket, to let its ashes keep its secret... Slowly Troy settled himself into his chair, reached for the envelope with a trembling hand. The letter opener shook as he slit open the top. Inside lay an eight-by-ten-inch glossy photograph, a line of numbers written across its back. Still trembling, Troy drew out the photo and turned it over.

It fell from his nerveless fingers and drifted to the desktop, where it lay mocking him silently. Her back was to the camera, facial profile curtained by matted and tangled dark hair, but he couldn't misinterpret the blurred black scorpion's sting inked across her back and rounding her hip. Her hands were behind her back, secured by a tightly buckled leather strap. She knelt on a white tile floor, surrounded by more white tile, as if to put on display the small, crusted burns and weeping red lash marks ruining the smooth flesh he remembered.

At last Troy ripped his eyes from the picture. His gaze rolled wildly around his office as if focusing and seeing it for the first time, then he clawed for his telephone. But before he could pick it up, he almost shot from his chair as its ring shrilled against the silence.

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. A Sky Full of Tears chapter 5

A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

Disclaimers in part I.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

by wordwolf 

PART V.

Troy snatched the telephone in a strangling grip, suspecting fearfully who would be on the other end. Placing it to his ear, he said nothing, waiting for the other.

And the other did not disappoint. "Hi, Christian. I see you got my little gift." A brief pause as he awaited a response. "What, not even a thank-you? I'm crushed. Oh, by the way, so is she."

That helped Troy find his voice. "You filthy bastard," he spat, "what do you want?"

"Well, that's something of an open question, isn't it?" Pierce was getting into his stride, obviously enjoying the role. "It changes for all of us from day to day, and I'm no exception. For a while now, what I've really wanted is our mutual friend Karen. I'm sure we've been sharing that desire since a certain night when we both got to have her… but since then all you've had is a memory, and I've had the real thing – over and over and over again!" He sniggered. "Not without quite a bit of resistance on her part, but still."

Troy's eyes went hot and wet. "Christ, what will it take to get you to stop torturing us both?"

"Hey, get a grip, Christian; no need to have kittens. I was just about to say that I DID want her – for a while. Now I'm bored, and I don't want her anymore. So I was wondering: When I've got something I don't want anymore, do I sell it secondhand, or throw it away?"

"You'd let her go?" This was the last thing Troy had expected.

"For a price. Maybe."

Troy chose to ignore the obvious needling in the other's tone, and tried to damp down the hope in his own. "Name it; it's yours."

Pierce clucked his tongue. "Now, now, it's not so cut and dried as that. I haven't made up my mind yet. But you have lots of nice stuff, and the money to buy lots more. Once I'm ready to leave town, I'll need the means to make a new start, and to drive out in style."

"You're leaving?"

"Miami was fun for a while, especially with ocean and swamp to three sides, but there's nothing here for me anymore. I hear New Orleans calling my name, or maybe Vancouver. Why should I bring a broken piece of ass with me?"

It was hard not to curse the line blue, but Troy kept his grip. "Deal. Whatever you want, Pierce; just let me have Karen back alive."

"But I like my negotiations face to face. So I'll see you tomorrow at high noon."

"Tomorrow? But the storm is hitting after midnight, and they say it'll blow all day!"

Chuckling at the other end. "Too afraid of a little wind and rain to save your girl? Some lover you are!"

"Noon it is," Troy growled. "Name the place."

"I did already. Turn the photo over." Troy obeyed. "See those numbers? They're GPS coordinates. You got a GPS?"

"In my car."

"Good. And by the way, I know where you went today. To the cops. And I know you're planning to call them again the second we hang up here. I'd advise you not to do that. Really bad idea."

Troy didn't show how that correct surmise had thrown him. "Oh? Why?"

"Because there are many ways to die, some of them a lot nastier than others. In fact, if you breathe a word about this little conversation to anyone – the cops, the media, that dumb-as-a-doorknob partner of yours, _anyone_ – I will know about it, and I'll tie up your precious little bitch in a puddle of gasoline and light a slow fuse. Got that?"

"I understand." Troy suddenly couldn't breathe.

"See you at noon. Bring your checkbook, credit cards, title to all vehicles, loose cash, and anything else you can think of. I'll bring the girl." Click.

In the boiling stew of Troy's emotions, the first ingredient, oddly, was exhilaration. _He had a chance!_ Sure, it was going to be costly, but only in money, and he could always make a lot more of that. All he needed now was to establish a cover for the meeting.

Composing himself, he casually wandered into his partner's office. "Sean," he began offhandedly, "maybe we should consider closing the office tomorrow, what with Tropical Storm Kristin hitting soon."

McNamara looked up. "You think so?"

"Well, I don't want to feel responsible for any of our employees or patients getting into an accident on the way here in heavy rain and fifty-mile-an-hour winds."

"You've got a point. Maybe we should reschedule what we can and have everyone stay home." He smiled. "Nothing like watching heavy weather from the inside of a nice dry house."

"Exactly." Troy grinned a bit too broadly. "Safe and warm."

XX

Troy woke late the next morning, unsure how he'd been able to sleep at all. Maybe the steady roar of the rain and wind against the building as the storm broke had had something to do with it. Or perhaps, with a way clear to resolution of his nightmare, his heart had some peace at last. For the price of some money, a few easily replaced toys, and a trip out in lousy weather, his life could be made complete.

He'd considered his options carefully and in detail as he lay in bed last night, and now he was ready. Deliberately he did not rush, but went carefully through every step of his morning routine. After that it was a matter of minutes to pull together the documents Pierce had demanded and to gather all the cash he had at the moment. Paying off the bastard would be no problem. Of course, as soon as he had brought Karen to safety, the police would get that call. With a little luck, they'd get Pierce before he could skip town. Troy reflected that it would be nice to share his satisfaction with Lt. Caine.

Pulling out of the garage, he carefully checked his onboard GPS. Good thing that these systems were engineered for almost all weather; as long as he could get a signal off of three of seven satellites through the clouds, he could get to Karen. The rain was coming down in sheets and the wind was blasting across the city, but as far as he was concerned, Kristin was just an effective way of clearing the streets of the usual heavy traffic. Christian Troy checked his coordinates, hit the gas, and headed south.

He wasn't thinking about how to handle the encounter; that he'd play by ear. Right now he was too busy planning the aftermath. If she didn't need immediate medical attention, he'd bring Karen home for a good night's rest first, then into the office to plan and begin treatment. Every single mark that maniac had inflicted would be expunged utterly, returning her to the perfection that nature had given her. They'd especially attack the hideous scorpion tattoo that had begun this whole ordeal – slowly, with the laser, as Sean had wanted. It'd take over a year of treatments, but in the meantime Troy would have other things to keep his girl's spirits up – starting with the most elegant diamond singleton he could find in all Miami.

It would be a short engagement, of course, only as long as it took to plan the wedding. For the honeymoon, she'd have her choice of Hawaii, Paris, Tuscany, San Francisco, safari in Kenya, or one of those Antarctic cruises. Once they got home, his apartment would suffice only until the children started coming. He smiled; that would be soon. He knew she wanted children as much as he did. Maybe they'd get a nice house in Sean and Julia's neighborhood, with lots of room. He'd like three – or hell, maybe even four! Karen would be a great mom, that was certain.

Yes, she would give him children, and he would give her anything and everything she ever desired. If she wanted to go back to school for the degree that Pierce's machinations had denied her, well, that would only be the beginning! And of course – this was _very_ important – from now on, Karen would set the tone of his social life and entertainment. What would she want? Theater, symphony, dance, opera – he'd take her anywhere, to anything, and he _would_ enjoy it with her. If she was a Sunday regular at that church of hers, then he'd go too. Maybe he'd even allow himself to be persuaded, and have himself rebaptized a Methodist. _Wouldn't that get Sean's panties in a bunch_, he thought with a snicker. And of course, the long evenings at home, sharing the great poets of the English language… Whatever it took, his nights in bars and clubs, hunting new flesh and scratching his itches, were over for good. He _would_ prove Kimber dead wrong about him. Karen would make a new man of him, the man he always should have been.

Troy felt like shouting, or singing; he hadn't been this exhilarated in ages. The car handled the way the commercials and the German engineers had promised. The wind seemed to be speeding him along the empty highway; the rain was clearing his way. He pawed for a CD to slide into the player, knowing exactly the one he wanted. The last time he'd heard _Ocean Rain_, one track had chilled him all the way through, but this album sang both of death and of resurrection. On it went.

"Here am I, whole at last with a golden view

Looking for hope and I hope it's you

Splitting my heart cracked right in two

The pleasure of pain endured to

Purify our misfit ways

And magnify our crystal days…"

He drove faster, defying the weather, only slowing down once the GPS told him to exit the highway. He felt only the merest tickle of foreboding – more a _frisson_ of excitement, really – as he realized it was leading him into the Everglades. James Pierce certainly had a sense of symmetry.

It was much slower going now as he picked his way along back roads, one eye always on the GPS screen. He had to plow through deep standing puddles, force his way across spots where the road was nearly washed out. Navigating the famous swamp in a tropical storm was a very different experience from being brought here on a still summer night – and in every way preferable. Then he'd been a helpless prisoner; today he'd taken control. Even when he had to abandon the car, his confidence did not flag. No, he couldn't drive any closer, but that huge, wind-whipped old cypress tree up ahead, lashing its branches in the air over a small spit of solid ground, was the final landmark. Eagerly Troy plunged into the storm, barely keeping his footing as he struggled to ford a deep slough that lay between him and the goal. Mud to his ankles, water to his thighs, the wind shoving hard to lay him on his face in the muck of the swamp, high noon as dark as six – he defied it all and pushed on.

There was something new at Pierce's secret place. The remains of the bonfires of the new moon were long gone, and the clearing was dominated by, of all things, a building. A modest wooden shed, obviously recent, covered most of the spot. Troy knew what – or who – was in it, waiting for rescue, for _him._ Heart racing, struggling through the mud and the lashing air and water, he gained the solid ground and gave a shout of triumph.

Filthy and wet through, Troy was grateful to find the door of the shack unlocked. He stumbled in out of the maelstrom, shutting the door behind him against the wind and taking a moment to catch his breath before looking around. At first glance, it seemed that looking around in such darkness was an utter waste of time. The lights were out, if indeed the windowless shed had any lights at all, and the gloom of the storm outside only deepened the shadows within. The steady rumble of the rain against the roof blurred into deep white noise.

Slowly Troy's eyes adjusted as best they could, picking deeper, solid forms out of the general dark. No sign of James Pierce as yet, but there was a big boxy shape against the far wall, like a trunk or chest, and near it – what? Some kind of rounded shape, raised on slim legs above the floor – a chair. Someone slumped over in a chair.

Troy covered the distance across the shed in three bounds. As he approached, more of the figure resolved: the dark hair, subtle curves of a female form, the head fallen over on the breast. Still too dark for details; he could not be sure…"Karen?"

The woman's head slowly rose, face unrecognizable in the deep dark, but weakened voice very familiar. "Christian? Oh Christian, you came!" She rose from the chair to meet him, flinging herself into his arms that spread wide to receive her. Their lips found each other without light, her mouth opening hungrily onto his, tongue sliding in deep and expertly as her pelvis pressed against him, her hips working, grinding them together…

Troy's eyes closed as their bodies met… then opened wide in astonishment as he felt her working him. _This_ was his tragic innocent, brought back for violation and torment, rescued at last? He broke the kiss and his hold, stepping back from her, seizing her wrists in his hands. "I don't know what the hell is going on," he demanded breathlessly, "but _you_ are not Karen Avalon. Who are you?"

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. A Sky Full of Tears chapter 6

A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

Disclaimers in part I. Excerpt from "This Be the Verse" by Philip Larkin. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

by wordwolf

PART VI.

Dr. Sean McNamara leaned back comfortably on his couch, looking past the dark television toward the nearly dark window. Indeed, there _was_ nothing like watching heavy weather from the inside of a nice dry house. Christian had been absolutely right about closing the practice for the storm. He had a nice hot cup of coffee, a cozy seat, warmth and quiet – until the phone shrilled.

He rose with half a sigh and went to get it. "Hello?"

"Dr. McNamara?" The voice was clear as a bell but very small; it seemed to be coming from a long distance away.

He recognized it, but didn't want to. "My God – Miss Avalon? But – I don't – how –"

"That's not important now." The voice trembled with urgency. "Christian – Dr. Troy – needs you."

"Didn't you call him a couple of days ago?"

"That wasn't me; it was a trick of Pierce's!"

_That's right, Pierce!_ McNamara had forgotten about him for a moment. "But isn't he holding you captive?"

"No, thank God, no!" The voice relaxed. "I'm safe, and free; he can never touch me again. But he's set a trap for Christian."

This was just too crazy; McNamara shook his head. "I don't know what to make of this. How do I know this _is_ you, and not the same trick?" Something occurred to him. "If you're really Karen Avalon, recite something by Philip Larkin!"

Annoyance in the voice now. "There's no time for that, Dr. McNamara!"

"I insist." He felt kind of proud of himself; this would be a good way to flush an impostor. Who memorized poems these days? He quickly suppressed the awareness that he didn't, either.

A distant sigh. "You asked for it… 'They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.' Satisfied?"

His eyes widened. "I guess I am. What's going on with Christian?"

The urgency had reappeared. "I told you: He's walking into a trap! He's gone into the Everglades, to the same spot where I – where it all went down… Pierce is waiting for him, and is up to no good. You and Lt. Caine came to save him once; now you must do it again!"

A sudden feeling of helplessness clawed at McNamara. "But what am I supposed to do?"

"You can do it again." The repetition was solid and confident. "Please hurry, Dr. McNamara; he's in terrible danger!"

"Okay, okay, I'll call the cops first and do whatever I can. Don't worry… Karen."

"Thank you. And please… tell Christian that he will be loved. Always." The last word seemed to echo as the connection broke.

XX

"Oh, damn it." The voice was still Karen's, but the weary, irritated tone wasn't. She shook off Troy's grip with a snap of both wrists and retreated through the dark. A switch clicked; sudden light blasted through the shack, and Troy squeezed his eyes shut against the flood scalding his eyes. He rubbed his eyes, tested them against the light, and saw –

"Jesus Christ! KIMBER?!"

"So you found me out," Kimber Henry admitted in a voice not her own. She reached up to grasp the wig of smooth dark hair and yank it off, revealing her own bleached curls.

"But what the – my God – what the hell did you do to your voice?"

She shrugged. "It won't last. Should wear off in another half-hour, I guess." Another shrug, this one uneasy. "It'd be a relief to sound like myself again for good."

Troy couldn't move; rooted to the spot, he could only stare at his past lover and nemesis, finally forcing out the real question: "Where's Karen Avalon?"

This time Kimber didn't shrug. "Dead. You know." She forced a deeply false laugh. "Like they say: Live by the sword, die by the sword!"

His eyes narrowed and flashed. "And live again – by the lying mouth of a desperate, grasping bitch like you." Swiftly he was upon her, hands firmly on her shoulders, pinning her to the wall of the shed. "Why'd you let that murdering bastard put you up to this?"

"Christian!" she gasped. "Put me up to this? How do you know he didn't force me to?"

Now it was time for his false laugh, a brittle and harsh one, as he grabbed for one of her wrists, yanked it up and waved it in front of both their faces. "Force you? See any rope burns or handcuff welts here? There's not a goddamn mark on you, Kimber! Now tell me before _I_ force you: Why'd you do this? What was Pierce going to pay you?"

Her sob was real. "Let go of me! Just let go, and I'll tell you." He obeyed and stepped back a pace, glaring hard and waiting.

She dropped her gaze to the floor to avoid his. "He said he'd pay me in – in _you_."

"And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The tears flowed a little faster. "If I helped him, he promised he'd set things up for me… that you'd be mine, always need me, never leave, never want another woman again. I wasn't going to do it at first! That's why I tried to talk to you, to get you to come to your senses and move on from Karen. But you wouldn't listen! So he had me drink this stuff that changed my voice for a while, told me what to say when I called…" She let out a howl. "Can't you see? I did it for YOU, Christian, not for me! I just wanted to help you!"

"Do you have any idea," he snarled through his teeth, "how disgusting it is to hear that bullshit in _her_ voice?"

"You prefer _my _voice?" It cut across Troy's consciousness like a lash; he whirled to see who had just entered and spoken. The slim blond man with a light pack on his back was dripping wet from the rain, but unlike the mud-smeared Troy was clean as a polished knife; he almost seemed to be glowing with health and exhiliration. There was barely time to register his presence before he attacked.

James Pierce was upon Troy like a tiger and within seconds had wrestled him into the chair Kimber had occupied. All the surgeon's considerable strength didn't even slow his enemy down. There was a click and a hard, cold sensation against Troy's right wrist, then his left; in the darkness he hadn't noticed the handcuffs locked to the chair, and now his arms were shackled securely to it. Two more sets went around his ankles easily in spite of all the kicks aimed at Pierce's head.

The task complete, the sorcerer stood up and straightened his wet leather jacket. "All set. It comes in handy, having the strength of ten men."

"Who'd you have to kill to get it?" Troy spat, still struggling against the chains.

"Believe me, you don't want to know. And you also don't want to know what I could have done if you'd had the sense to let me do my _purushamedha_ properly last month. Burning down the whole metroplex from Miami to Boca Raton would have been only the beginning. But you had to play the big hero!"

Troy's eyes flashed pure hate. "Karen was the hero. If that's what you were planning, I'm sure she believed her life was a small price to pay to stop you."

"NOTHING human can stop me, not for long! Two bullets through my chest barely knocked me down for an hour!" He laughed harshly. "Stupid pathetic cops let me get myself into the water – let me touch the flow, use the power. By the time their so-called recovery team showed up, I was long away! Now I'm back, and so are you, and it's finally payback time – will you shut up, you stupid bimbo!" he snapped at Kimber, who huddled at the wall, weeping.

"Oh, leave her out of it, Pierce. You got what you wanted out of the poor bitch; let her go. Just kill me already and get your stupid corny revenge over with."

"Kill you?" He grinned toothily. "I can't. I made a promise."

Somehow Troy was able to keep his eyes and voice level. "If you're trying to frighten me, pack it in. Hell, I wasn't a torture virgin even before you came along, and compared to a pissed-off _narcotraficante_ with the balls to tattoo himself instead of three helpless little girls, you are strictly amateur hour."

Pierce chuckled. "Keep up the act, Christian; it's just making this more fun. Love makes men do stupid things, and the last stupid thing you ever did was not letting me chop pretty Karen's head off. I could have opened the gates of hell… but now I'll open them just for you. Consider it your reward for being such a hero."

Kimber screamed and rose shakily to her feet. "But you promised me!"

"What? That I wouldn't hurt him? When did I say that? All I promised you was that he'd be yours!" Pierce strode over to his collaborator, reaching out to yank a cellphone from the waistband of her jeans. "By the way, I'll want this back now that you've done your job." He swung the pack off one shoulder and thrust the phone inside. "Trust me, Kimber, you'll get exactly what we agreed to: Dr. Christian Troy needing you, crawling at your feet, and not interested in other women. Here, take this." Out of the pack he pulled a deceptively delicate hacksaw and tossed it at her; stiff with fear, she made no attempt at a catch and it clanged at their feet. "You'll need this to cut him free… after I crush every bone in both his hands and feet. But first I do one of those operations easy enough to do without an MD." He crossed the shack again to stand before his prisoner; out of the pack came a small rubber mallet and a slim, silvery pick. "Ever heard of the legendary transorbital lobotomy, Christian? No anesthesia. Pull back the eyelid and slide straight to the brain by way of the upper eyesocket, and then a good hard tap on the spike. Or lots of good hard taps." Pierce twirled the pick in his fingers as he slowly approached. "Have to make sure that pretty Kimber gets the helpless, mindless, utterly dependent lump she was promised!"

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. A Sky Full of Tears chapter 7

A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

Disclaimers in part I.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

by wordwolf 

PART VII.

"I'm sorry you had to come out in this dreadful weather, Lieutenant."

Behind the wheel of the Hummer, Horatio Caine replied to his passenger without looking at him. "Actually, Dr. McNamara, I'm not even here. We're not making this drive, and we're not having this conversation." He stared steadily forward at the rain as it came down nearly horizontally. Neither rain nor wind nor slick, empty road perturbed the immense vehicle at all.

"Really. Why not?"

"You really want to know?" Caine risked turning his gaze from the road and the storm to regard the other. "Because I'm using department time and equipment and bringing a civilian with me in a situation where by the usual standards probable cause does not exist, and on the strength of a tip from a woman who's supposed to be dead. I could lose my shield for this."

McNamara found himself quite impressed. "So why are you doing it?"

Caine looked forward again, eyes narrowed. "Because this time, it's personal." He sighed a little; McNamara waited for him to continue. "Last month I couldn't recognize – or maybe I refused to see – anything different about this James Pierce, and because of that, I ended up giving a double murderer the opportunity to kill again. Then I was so sure he was dead that I held back one of my team from going after him – and permitted him to escape. It wasn't until Dr. Troy came to me earlier this week to tell me about that phone call, and we discovered the disappearance of Miss Avalon's body, that I realized what we could be dealing with. Whatever the hell this man is and can do, he won't be doing it again on my watch."

It wasn't long before they went off the road and into the near-trackless morass of the Everglades. McNamara felt for the comforting weight in his jacket pocket, then risked distracting the driver by asking, "How do you remember this route after so long?"

"I don't. It's still in the navigational computer. Luckily for everyone involved, I hadn't purged it yet. Isn't that Dr. Troy's car?"

McNamara peered through the rain and darkness. "Yes, it is!" His heart sped as the Hummer plunged in and out of the deep, muddy ditch that had stood as the last barrier to Troy's less muscular vehicle. A shed now stood under the wind-whipped cypress tree on the little patch of solid land, which had almost become an island. Smoothly Caine glided to a stop beside it, killed the engine; he leaped from the Hummer and drew his gun in a single fluid move, McNamara right behind him, and together they swooped for the hideout.

XX

Christian Troy tried to keep his eyes on James Pierce and away from the gleaming point of the spike. There had to be a way to stall for time… but why? In the hope that Kimber, of all people, would suddenly grow a spine and take that hacksaw to their captor's neck, or something? Not a goddamned chance in hell; she'd never had his back, or anyone else's, in her whole mess of a life. In the miraculous event that she tried, Pierce would probably kill her with his bare hands – or just one of them – and Kimber knew it. She huddled in the corner and was not about to move anytime soon.

Maybe it'd be best just to submit and get it over with. With a warped kind of luck, Pierce would overdo it and kill him; maybe if he shoved his own head forward at just the right time, Troy could ensure a relatively easy death for himself. Considering that no one on earth was looking for him, or even knew where he was, that was about the best prospect available. Yes, just get it over with…

Or maybe not. "Wait a second!" Troy cried. "Before you do – do it, I just have to know: What about the picture? If Karen is dead, where'd that picture come from?"

Pierce almost dropped his spike and mallet, he was laughing so hard. "What kind of a fucking moron are you, Troy? Haven't you ever heard of Photoshop? Shit, twelve-year-old kids are manipulating digital images these days! Easiest thing in the world to copy a picture from the right kinky website and lay on the image of my mark… way fucking easier than preparing a rite for twenty-five goddamned YEARS only to have it fucked up by some lovestruck asshole of a plastic surgeon!" Laughter had mutated into screaming rage, then forced down into icy calm again. "This is it, Troy. And don't think I can't hold your head immobile. If you give me a hard enough time, I can always paralyze you for as long as it takes. Meanwhile, this'll help." He set down the pick and hammer, reaching into his bag and coming up with a roll of duct tape. He tore a strip, pasted it over Troy's mouth, and stepped back to admire his work. "Hmm. Not bad. I'll bet I'm the first guy who was able to get you to shut up for the last dozen years." The tape roll went down and the pick and hammer came up again. Moving slowly for maximum effect, Pierce raised them and advanced again.

But the steady beat of rain on the roof and rush of the wind had masked the rumble of the approaching engine. The first sign of the rescuers was the door, flung open; a voice commanded, "Freeze! Police!"

Pierce turned, but slowly, a smug grin growing on his face as he appraised the two. "So. Hail the conquering heroes. I don't know how you found me out, but it's not going to matter at all."

Caine eyed him coolly from behind his cocked and aimed gun. "James Pierce, you are under arrest for the murders of Blair Blackwood, Vanessa Piggott-Ross, and Karen Avalon."

"Oh, so I am?" Pierce chuckled. "You mention Blair… but you conveniently forget that I killed her in full view of nearly a dozen people, all of whom meekly let me leave afterwards and considerately forgot my name and description. But you and Dr. McNamara are going to do even better than that…"

His tone was calm and calming, rhythmic, soft yet commanding… In a sweating panic, Troy realized what the sorcerer was doing. There must be something hypnotic about his voice; already the others had stopped, were beginning to relax, to submit and obey. Troy struggled uselessly against the tape, the chains, but all he could do was sweat and make rattling noises, easily ignored. Kimber had pressed herself to the wooden wall, eyes wide with incredulity and horror.

Again Pierce had put aside the spike and mallet, and slowly approached Caine and McNamara, his hands held out. "You're going to do exactly as I say. You're going to stand there all nice and cooperative, and you, Caine, are going to give me that gun. And you're going to keep standing there all nice and cooperative until I gut-shoot you both, and watch you drop, writhe, and die…" He reached out with his right hand; Caine slowly turned his own pistol around, offered the grip to Pierce, made no move or sound as the other put his own hand around the gun…

A shriek like tearing metal shattered the deadly white-noise quiet in the shack – Kimber screamed, and screamed, and screamed as if it were the last sound she'd ever make. Caine's eyes went wide, and he grabbed to recover his gun when suddenly a shot blasted out, then another, and another. Pierce crumpled to the floor and lay, twitching slightly, as Dr. Sean McNamara finished emptying the full six-shot load of his small snub-nosed revolver into the sorcerer's body.

The surgeon met the criminalist's inquiring gaze. "Dr. McNamara, do you have a permit for that?"

"Of course I do. Don't tell me you want to see it right now."

"No, I guess not." With that, Caine plunged across the shed, holstering his gun and producing his handcuff key. "Are you all right, Dr. Troy?" he asked as he pulled the duct tape away and began unlocking the shackles.

"If those shots didn't deafen us all, yes." He looked up at the other with pure gratitude on his face. "How did you know to come here?"

"Your partner, Dr. McNamara, got a call from someone claiming to be Karen Avalon – just as you did."

"No kidding." Troy rose from the chair, rubbing his wrists, and looked admiringly toward Kimber, who had stopped screaming and slumped back against the wall, crying softly. "She must have gotten that one off right before I got here. Well done!"

She looked up, eyes wet and confused. "I did?" she gasped in a voice that was not yet restored to itself. Halfway between her breathy soprano and Karen's alto, it sounded almost computer-generated. "I don't think so. I might have… I guess I must have… Did I call you, Sean? Damned if I can remember!" She sniffled and began sobbing again as Caine reached her, helped her up and took her soothingly in his arms.

He was about to say something comforting when another noise intervened – a nerve-wracking screech of steel on something hard. All eyes turned to McNamara. He was kneeling on the floor beside Pierce's body in a spreading crimson puddle, the hacksaw picked up and in his hand, pumping back and forth through Pierce's neck, metal scraping across bone. "Sean," Troy almost cried out, "what the hell are you doing?"

McNamara didn't look up. "Someone's got to make sure this son of a bitch doesn't come back yet again. Bullet wounds are one thing, but I'd like to see him reattach his own goddamn head."

Caine watched in stunned open-mouthed astonishment. "Dr. McNamara, how do you expect me to explain the decapitation of the suspect in my report?"

"You' re a trained professional, Lieutenant. You'll think of something."

"Looks as if I'll have to." Caine pulled his gaze from the gruesome scene and sent it roving around the rest of the shed, eventually choosing the big wooden chest against the farther wall. He gently released Kimber and crossed to open it – then froze. "Doctors, now we know for sure what became of Karen Avalon." A sigh. "At least she might have a chance to rest in peace."

McNamara paused in his repulsive task; Troy choked back a sob. Neither went over to see for himself.

EPILOGUE

Christian Troy insisted on returning to work the next morning as usual, a slight subdual of his manner the only sign of recent events. Again, Sean McNamara remained cool and followed his partner's cues, which were few indeed. Days passed before they even discussed the incident.

It was in the middle of the morning, in the break room between a consult and a routine liposuction, when Troy broached the subject. "Thank you for taking care of her for me, Sean."

McNamara knew what he meant. The senior surgeon had taken it upon himself to arrange the cremation of both bodies. Karen's urn burial had taken place in the presence of friends contacted via her workplace and church. As for Pierce, the doctors had taken fierce satisfaction in flushing his ashes down the office men's room toilet. "Somehow I don't think the awesome power of liquid is going to save the bastard this time," Troy had observed as they watched the gray sludge swirl away. It had felt _good_.

Now McNamara looked at his friend, smiling gently. "It's all right, Christian."

"Actually, thank you even more for taking care of _me_. I don't like to think about what Pierce was going to do."

McNamara smiled more broadly. "You'll have to thank Kimber for that one. If she hadn't had the guts to make that call to me…"

Something occurred to Troy. "I've been thinking about that. If Kimber was calling for help, why'd she bother pretending to be Karen?"

"I don't know, Christian, but she did a fine job of it! She had that girl's speech pattern down cold. And would you believe she was able to quote Philip Larkin when I insisted on it?"

Troy peered at him. "Sean, Kimber Henry is barely able to quote Mother Goose!"

"Then what's your explanation? I have a hard time imagining Karen herself calling from the other side."

Now Troy only shrugged. "If she did, she won't do it again. It's over." He sighed, repeated, "It's really over." There was a brief silence, deep for Troy and awkward for McNamara, before Troy relaxed and resumed. "You did remind me: I want you to take this." He placed something on the table between them: his copy of the collected poems of Philip Larkin.

The other drew back a step. "No, Christian – no, I can't take this from you!"

"You have to." Troy turned away. "I can't look at it anymore."

"Oh. Well, then, if you put it that way…" McNamara picked up the book. "I'll keep it for you. If you ever change your mind, I'll have it."

In his office later, McNamara casually flipped the book open and began to read at random:

"COMPLINE

Behind the radio's altarlight

The hurried talk to God goes on:

_Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done,_

_Produce our lives beyond this night, _

_Open our eyes again to sun. _

Unhindered in the dingy wards

Lives flicker out, one here, one there,

To send some weeping down the stair

With love unused, in unsaid words:

For this I would have quenched the prayer,

But for the thought that nature spawns

A million eggs to make one fish.

Better that endless notes beseech

As many nights, as many dawns,

If finally God grants the wish."

He quickly closed the book and shut it away in his desk's bottom drawer. Neither of them would be going back to it anytime soon.

XX

It was after dark when Christian Troy arrived at the bar, a new one he was trying on the recommendation of a patient. Inside looked inviting, with a soft reddish glow promising warmth and a crowd. He plunged in, found a seat near the middle of the action, looked around.

It seemed that the recommendation was a solid one. The women in this place were first-rate: tall, lean, hot, and eminently willing to display it. Troy waited only until his drink arrived before picking it up and rising, heading for an empty spot beside a blonde – natural, it looked like – who needed no enhancements. And if that didn't work out, there was a fine redhead two tables away. No, he wouldn't be going home alone tonight. He moved slowly, casually, conscious of appraising eyes upon him – appraising and pleased – and he felt himself smile coolly. There was no hurry. After all, he now had all the time in the world.

END


End file.
